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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617577">The Snow Moon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertPersephone/pseuds/DesertPersephone'>DesertPersephone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Charles The Werewolf King, Fairy Tale Elements, Original Fairy Tale, Werewolf Transformation, Werewolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:33:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertPersephone/pseuds/DesertPersephone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every full moon the Wolf King is plagued by intense pain, pain so bad it forces his body to relent and he blacks out.</p><p>Every full moon his kingdom is ravaged by a creature. A monster. A giant wolf.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Snow Moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay this is literally only here because I Need the italics in the text for emphasis.</p><p>Charles is my newest original character and also my newest werewolf boy and here in follows a transformation for February 2020. Basically the idea is that he was raised by wolves, turned into one and then returned to the human world, but has no idea that he's a werewolf. Really classic fairy tale shit yknow.</p><p>anyway yes i highly doubt anyone not from Twitter is gonna read this so,</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The pain awoke him that morning. Dull nails <em>pressing </em>into his body and leaving invisible bruises when his eyes opened and he reached for the blankets as if to catch the imps that must be <em>hammering</em> away at his joints while he slept. The <em>aching</em> started almost as soon as he awoke and would not cease no matter the position he laid in, the relaxation his muscle begged for unable to come as all sensation against his skin <em>burned</em> and <em>stung</em>. Nothing was soft enough, even the silk sheets <em>grated</em> against his nerves like <em>thorns</em>. His arms would not cease the <em>throbbing</em> inside him, like his blood had been replaced by <em>hornets</em>, angry to be released from their prison.</p><p>Charles had barely managed to get to his feet he was so weak, and as he reached for the cane by the bedside table to assist him, his sandbag fingers fumbled against the silver wolf head and both he and the cane toppled to the floor. The rugs upon the hard floor did nothing to ease his fall and it felt like his knees were being <em>split</em> <em>open</em>.</p><p>But it was not time for that.</p><p>Soon his bedchamber was filled with his doctors and his grooms, all doing their best to ease the pain somehow. He had felt the <em>buzz</em> of <em>panic</em> coming off them in waves when he had been found struggling to stand. He <em>despised</em> that sound, the static of <em>worry</em> that filled his ears whenever anyone saw him brought so low and he had roughly pushed away anything helping hands, <em>dragging</em> himself to his feet with assistance only from the bedside table.</p><p>A groom was there to blot the sweat from his brow now, as he lay prone in bed, hands curled weakly in the thick blankets. His bones felt like they were slowly <em>cracking</em> like logs in a fire and his joints were <em>stiff</em> as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. He could practically hear them <em>creak</em> with every movement like new boots. Even his <em>teeth</em> and <em>hair</em> ached today, and the only solace Charles could find seemed to be the knowledge that tomorrow or the day after he would wake up well rested and without <em>pain</em>. It had always come in cycles, since he was a boy, the <em>pain</em> and then the <em>relief</em>. He would feel himself close to <em>death</em> with the hurt inside (that would come tonight when the moon was high he was sure) and it would be so intense that he would <em>blackout</em>, alone and safe in his chambers. But by the morrow, the only reminder of that pain would be a stiff neck and a few strange bruises, leaving his body, his mind, and his mood <em>rejuvenated</em>. He would feel like a new man, able to do anything in the world. Once he had even led his army to a <em>victory</em> on one such morning. He would be able to <em>walk</em> unassisted and ride again. He would be able to enjoy himself and the people around him, he would <em>eat</em> without feeling sick and <em>sleep</em> peacefully. He would feel like a man of <em>30</em> might be meant to feel.</p><p>But it would last. Soon the good feeling would <em>dwindle</em>, and he would be left <em>aching</em> again. His nightly hours would be plagued by <em>tossing</em> and <em>turning</em> and the morning stiffness in his hands would grow until he could <em>barely</em> hold a goblet.</p><p>He would be right back to this place, unable to <em>dress</em>, to rise from <em>bed</em>, to fulfill any <em>duties</em> his title might require of him. He had tried a few times, after he had been made king, to attend Court duties in this state and it had always ended <em>poorly</em>. It was better to take the <em>pain</em> alone in bed.</p><p>He swallowed around the <em>stiffness</em> in his throat, his eyes fluttering open as <em>heat</em> crept up his body, flushing his cheeks and making him restless.</p><p>“Hot… it’s too <em>hot</em>.” He whispered, looking around at the doctors he employed uselessly puttering around the room, making poultices and tonics Charles knew wouldn’t work. The only thing they seem good for was rubbing his hands.</p><p>They seemed to have not heard what he said, and a strange <em>anger</em> rose up in Charles. His emotions were usually too close to the surface when he was this bad, and it only took the drop of a pin to set off his temper.</p><p>“It’s too <em>hot</em>!” He shouted, picking the cold rag off his head and <em>throwing</em> it across the room with surprising force. He tugged on the collar of his night shirt as the doctors thrust themselves into a flurry to open the glass doors that lead onto the balcony, letting in the cold air, offering a tiny amount of respite. Charles was sure he would <em>die</em> if he had to suffer like this in hot weather.</p><p>“Why is it so <em>hot</em>?” He demanded, heat only ever helping his symptoms when easing the <em>sore</em> muscles in his legs during a bath. He <em>struggled</em> out from under the piles of blankets and fur on top of him, setting his <em>burning</em> feet on the cold ground as one of his doctors rushed to help him to walk to the doors.</p><p>“We thought the heat might help you sweat out the sickness, like a fever.” He replied hesitantly as Charles sagged against him before he helped the King into a chair by the doors, positioned for him to rest his face against the glass windows running alongside the doors.</p><p>“Well,” Charles snapped, “this isn’t a <em>fever</em>, is it?” He glared, leaning against the cold glass, sighing with relief at the sensation against his heated skin, breath fogging the pane. “It’s not a fever,” he whispered, shifting to press his forehead to the window. “It’s not a fever, its never been a fever,the fever is just a symptom of this.” He shook his head and shut his eyes, resting against the window for a moment, hands curled around the arms of the chair. Lifting his head again, he looked over the room, filled with people. <em>Warm bodies</em> and <em>rushing blo</em>od that <em>crowded</em> in on his <em>thoughts</em> and his <em>territory</em>, offering no help other then to make him <em>sweat</em>.</p><p>“Get <em>out</em>! Everyone, <em>out</em>.” His voice was strangely soft, gentle, before his shook his head and that <em>anger</em> was back and he was bellowing,</p><p>“GET <em>OUT</em>! <em>OUT</em>! <em>Out</em> of my sight!” He actually stood and threw his hands toward the door, gaze fierce and bright as the men scrambled to leave, only relaxing again when the door shut finally, and blissful silence filled the room. Charles limped to that door and latched the lock, making sure he would not be disturbed as a wave of pain <em>wracked</em> through his body, making him cry out.</p><p>It started the same, every month, a <em>dizzy</em> sort of pounding in his head, an <em>ache</em> under each rib so that every breath <em>seared</em> his lungs and as he <em>pulled</em> at his hair. His nails were always next, starting to <em>bruise</em> and <em>bleed</em> around the cuticles before <em>falling off,</em> leaving his fingers <em>blood stumps</em> that left smears on the porcelain basin as he leaned over its contents, <em>shaking</em> when another shock of pain when through his left leg. The white nightshirt slowly became <em>soiled</em> with <em>sweat</em> and <em>blood</em> and <em>clumps of his hair</em> as he <em>pulled</em> at his skin through the fabric, useless nails trying to <em>rip</em> his own flesh from his bones. He leaned over the basin again when blood <em>drooled</em> from his mouth, catching on his beard, his gums beginning to <em>split</em> and <em>burst</em>. He reached <em>shaking</em> fingers into his mouth to <em>pull</em> the molars from his jaw, spitting blood and teeth into the basin as he <em>cried</em>, wailing with the pain. Tears <em>stung</em> his eyes and he smeared blood over his throat, the sharp points of his bones starting to <em>break</em> through his <em>skin</em>, <em>breeching</em> the outside world and <em>cracking</em>, <em>reforming</em>, taking shapes his body knew by <em>heart</em> at this point in his life. But the familiarity of it didn’t meant there was no pain. The muscle memory didn’t ease the pain as his skin seemed to <em>shred</em> and hair <em>sprouted</em>, growing long and thick all over his <em>body</em>. His heart had to <em>stop</em> and <em>grow</em>, his kidneys and liver doing the same, before <em>restarting</em>, the <em>screams</em> only stopping because his throat had <em>closed</em>, vocal cords <em>snapped</em> and then <em>retwisting</em>, voice choked into <em>silence</em>. The pain didn’t stop when he fell to his knees, spine <em>cracking</em> and <em>twisting</em> and <em>arching</em>, fingers starting to <em>stretch</em> and the bones <em>snapped</em>, <em>claws</em> growing from where his fingernails <em>used to be.</em> Any teeth left in his mouth were <em>pushed out</em> to be replaced by <em>fangs</em>, tongue <em>growing</em> and <em>lolling</em> inside his mouth.</p><p>Finally, as the moonlight spilled into the room and the fire crackled into <em>embers</em>, the great wolf Charles had become lifted itself from the floor, pain finally <em>gone</em>. He shook his head and stared up at the moon, ready to <em>run</em> and <em>chase</em> Her across the sky, ready to seek out something to fill the <em>hollow</em> aching in his chest. Blood usually, and <em>flesh</em>, hunting and killing the only thing that seemed to stop the <em>longing</em> the moonlight brought with it.</p><p>This is how it happened <em>every month</em>. The wolf would <em>tear</em> his way out of the human skin and wander across the hills and forests and towns and farms of the kingdom, leaving being a trail of <em>flesh</em>, <em>intestines</em> and <em>ripped skin</em>. He would roll in the snow at this time of year; the dead leaves, mud, or new flowers at others, until the moon began to set and tired paws found their way back to the stone halls of the castle, enormous body <em>collapsing</em> for sleep finally, satisfied for a few more weeks to <em>slumber</em> inside his human chest.</p><p>When the King awoke in the easiest of morning light, before everyone else, he moved in a strange trance, almost like sleepwalking, scrubbing his body of the <em>dried dirt</em> and <em>blood</em> left behind before beginning to wipe any traces of the transformation away. <em>Fingernails</em> would be burnt, <em>teeth</em> hidden in a box under the bed, ripped <em>nightshirt</em> and <em>blood rags</em> stowed to be taken out and burned with the other linens from his sick times. Once the room and his body were clean, he climbed back into bed. The sheet would be <em>soft</em> against his bare skin, skin that didn’t <em>sting</em> and <em>ache</em> for once and he would fall asleep again until late into the day.</p><p>Some would ask, if they knew, how Charles seemed to not <em>remember</em> the events of a full moon, especially when he himself cleaned up the evidence every morning. It was simple. <em>Magic</em>. It was a magic brought on by the pain and the trauma of the events, settling like a <em>blanket</em> over his mind to protect both his human parts and his wolf parts. It was the same magic that protected and hid the memories of his early childhood, of his <em>Wolf Mother</em>. The magic did not keep him from feeling the effects of the Wolf inside him, and perhaps someday, if there was someone to help him cope, someone to replace the <em>longing</em> and <em>love</em> the wolf felt for the moon, those memories could be revealed, and his body would live in <em>harmony</em> with the two parts inside of him.</p>
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